


the earth froze up

by wordsaremeaningless



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Always Female Dean Winchester, Bondage, Clit Pumping, Cunnilingus, Forced Orgasm, Labia, Monsters, Multi, Sex Machine, Sexual Slavery, cum milking, medical fetish, pussy milking, pussy pumping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 05:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16191233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsaremeaningless/pseuds/wordsaremeaningless
Summary: I fucked up,was all he could think, looping endlessly, guttingly through his brain, even as their cold hands forced his head up, forced his eyes open, forced him to watch what they were doing to Deanna.They never should have come to Montana.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “Locust Furnace” by Godflesh. This is my first fanfic I’ve ever written. It’s not supposed to make sense (also, I haven’t watched SPN in 5 or 6 years)—it’s largely going to be fucked-up, self-indulgent smut/kinks I’m into but rarely see. Read the tags/heed the warnings! Further notes at the end.

They’d left Sammy safe, thousands of miles away with Bobby, guarded over by his watchful eyes and a perimeter of rusted, broken-down skeletons. This wasn’t something John wanted to expose a 12-year-old to, but he figured Deanna would be able to handle it: five young women gone missing over the past three years, and even with the local legends of vampires stretching back well over a century, he knew—in his gut—that there could just as well be a human element here, someone raping and butchering these girls, and the thought of that scared John more than monsters ever would. At this age, Sam somehow still believed in an innate goodness within every person. He didn’t have the heart to tell his youngest just how wrong he was. Not yet.

It was their typical routine: motel room with two twin-sized beds, books and notes spread haphazardly over the dresser, Deanne getting the first shower. They slept, exhausted from the long drive, and the next morning they met with the woman who had contacted the Winchesters. She was white, pushing 80, hunched over with age, and her granddaughter had disappeared last spring. The police had given up on her and the three other women. “I’m not holding any hope that she’s still alive,” the old woman said, “but I need to know what happened.”

At dusk, they armed themselves before heading to the trailhead where the last girl had disappeared: guns, in case this was a human, and blades and dead man’s blood if the local legends held true.

Neither of John’s theories were correct.

 

* * *

 

It happened so fast. They were only 50 feet into the woods—dense and dominated by conifers—when he heard Deanna’s strangled yelp, seconds before something heavy cracked against the back of his skull, and he felt sick and dizzy and things swam in front of his eyes before it all slipped away. _I couldn’t have done anything,_ he’d eventually tell himself. _They were so quiet. There was nothing I could have done._

  

* * *

 

John didn’t know how long he’d been out when he came to, his entire head and torso soaked in cold sweat. It was pitch-black, and cold and damp and smelled of wet dirt and he could hear his breath echoing: he was underground, in some sort of cave system. His eyes still weren’t adjusting to this level of darkness, but he could make out his own body in front of himself, a denser blackness than the surrounding dark, and the ache started to settle in. He was kneeling, still fully clothed, with his ankles anchored to the ground (he tested whatever restrained him but he couldn’t move at all, and something cold and hard dig into his skin even through his socks—metal cuffs seemed most likely) and the rest of his body unsteadily swayed until he braced his core, suspended from his bound wrists stretched over him. Chains rattled. He couldn’t budge. His mouth was full of cotton and he could make only a muffled bleat against it.

Then there were quiet, quiet footsteps, and a fluorescent light turned on from somewhere above him. John squeezed his eyes shut against it, and opened them again, squinting, to the four men standing in front of him. One of them removed his gag. “You aren’t vampires,” he said. “You sick fucks—you’re using an old wive’s tale to cover your tracks when you kidnap these girls. Who the fuck are you? Where are they? You still have their damn bodies?”

The man in the front—darker than the others, the sort of tan that came from laying out in the sun the entire summer, almost unnaturally handsome: light brown eyes, dark hair, a week’s worth of scruff on his smirking, sharp-jawed mug—stepped forward and looked down to make eye contact with John, and then he laughed, a short, cruel little bark. “Oh, John Winchester. We aren’t vampires, no.” He grinned, and his bone-white teeth made something lurch in John’s gut that he couldn’t name. “But we’ve been around just as long.”

 

* * *

 

They wouldn’t answer his questions about the missing girls, and they refused to offer up anything about what they were, but they did gag him again, and unanchored him from his restraints to stand, hands bound behind him with metal, and dragged him—hobbling, squirming, yelling through the gag the entire time—to Deanna. They were going to make him watch.


	2. chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i’m too damn lazy for this right now ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is rough and quick—sorry! getting to the meaty stuff next chapter.

She woke not unlike her father: gagged and squinting against cool fluorescent light. She was cold. Deanna’s body tried to pull in on itself, to shield her core against the cool damp air, but she was spread and pinned like a moth on some sort of convoluted gynecological table, leather straps across her torso—one above her navel, another across her hips—her wrists cuffed at her sides, legs bent and spread wide in stirrups her ankles were locked into. The upper half of her buttocks rested on the table, her torso at a 45 degree angle.

Duly, head fogged from the tranquilizers they’d injected her with while she was under, she realized that she was nude; she looked down and her own body registered before her, blurry from her swimming vision. The light hurt. Deanna forced her eyes open, tried to track the moving figures—all men—before she had to shut them again. She couldn’t process what they were saying, couldn’t hear it—not really, with the drugs still blunting the edges of reality so heavily—but yards away, John could.

“Pubic hair can stay as is—we can work for now with how closely-trimmed things are.” “Okay.” “Is the machine prepped?” This voice was lower than the other, a little raspy. “It’s all ready to go, Cal.” John cried out against his gag in a useless protest ( _what the fuck are you gonna do to my little girl?_ ), and Deanna shifted on the table a little, her head turning but her eyes still closed. He twisted against his chains, but got a swift kick in the side for that, and he sagged forwards, sobbing. The handsome man’s hand grasped him across the underside of his jaw, and forced him to turn his head. “Look.” He looked to the side of of her, and there was a long, wheeled metal cart: there was a coiled tube that fed into a clear acrylic receptacle at one side of the table, and at the other was what looked to John like a strange, oversized air compressor fixed with knobs and dials. “I want you to watch what we’re going to do to your daughter, hunter.”

The three men by the table sidled up to her and stopped moving, one between her legs and the other two flanking him at her hips. The center man—Cal—was long and lean and lighter than the handsome man (Eli, he’d learned), smooth-shaven, with unruly dark blonde hair, his arms sinewy and his hands big and long-fingered. He had a boyish beauty to his face that seemed out-of-place on his body. John wanted to slit his fucking throat.

When Cal touched her inner thigh, she jerked, opened her eyes, and tried to yell. Reflexively, her torso twisted as well as it could to try and avoid the warm hand that rested there, but Deanna was trapped. She strained forwards, attempting to move; making no progress, a pathetic squeal muffled itself against the gag. “Tranquilizers, now.” Again, they were fast. It took seconds as John watched for them to draw the medication from the tiny vial and inject it into a vein at her throat, and almost immediately her body went limp, and her muted screaming stopped. He could still hear her fast, panicked whimpers, but they were quieter now.

Cal peeled her open slowly, delicately. He rolled her thick outer labia between his thumbs and forefingers and pulled them apart and then towards him. Deanna groaned helplessly at the stimulation. “Aphrodisiac has kicked in.” He spread her open again, holding up what John realized was an electric caliper. “Labia majora are naturally well-developed. 2.5cm at the widest point, and... 4.5cm at its longest from where the vulva and inner thigh meet.” One of the men flanking Cal took notes on a yellow steno pad. Still using her outer lips as handles to expose her, he pulled them even wider now, provoking a louder whimper from Deanna, but a lower, slower one that didn’t seem as panicked. “Inner labia need significant development—I suggest we focus on them first before applying vacuum therapy to the entire vulva.” “Agreed.” “Agreed.” Cal inspected her more closely now, and John’s throat flooded with bile. “Labia minora are 1.3mm thick, with...” More prying her folds open now, pushing back on her mons fat. “3 cm of protrusion from the pubic bone and 1cm protruding beyond the outer labia. Definitely needs improvement.” More pen scratching. Cal’s fingers moved to Deanna’s inner lips, and now he slowly, gently rolled and massaged and tugged them between the pads of his fingers and the sobbed moan John heard next made him squeeze his eyes shut against the tableau before him and turn his head away, until Eli forced him to face it again and another man’s fingers held his eyelids open. “Clitoris also underdeveloped—recommending focused therapy after combination vacuum therapy with the labia minora.” Eli called over: “agreed, Cal,” and John could feel his cheeks flush with blood. The fingers holding his eyes open had dropped away and he shut them tightly. He didn’t want to look at this.

Deanna couldn’t help the long, low moan that spilled from her mouth—muffled, still, against the gag—when Cal’s fingertip pushed back the hood sheathing her clit. “Good. Prepuce covers the entire glans without manual retraction. No visible keratinization.” Her entire body still felt soft and limp, muscles still as much as she bid them to contract and struggle, but her eyes were starting to focus now on the man between her legs: square, sharp jaw against softer features and wide shoulders. _The Basketball Diaries_ had come out two months earlier—the three Winchesters had seen it in Iowa City after a werewolf hunt that hadn’t panned out—and she though, as much as she didn’t want to, that this guy looked a little like Leo. Without the drugs relaxing her reflexes, she’d be screaming, spitting, her hands around his throat; he shouldn’t be touching her like this. It felt like she was filled with ice water, mouth to guts, her esophagus all frozen up... this was a sort of terror she wasn’t familiar with, having no control over her entire body, vulnerable like this, entirely exposed. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Nothing like this had ever happened.

The man between her legs opened his lips just a little, his pink tongue flickering out to wet his lips, but then his tongue didn’t stop—it poured like taffy out of his mouth, four, five, six inches, then a foot, long and wet and it looked like it wasn’t ever going to end, and Deanna started screaming as best as she could. John’s eyes opened. He was at an angle where he couldn’t tell what was happening, with Cal’s broad back completely obscuring Deanna, but he tried to lean to the side, struggling before his chains were roughly jerked back at.

“Cal!” barked Eli, and the other man’s tongue retracted back into his mouth. “Enough. I’m taking over.” He moved towards the table and John’s head, finally free of that too-firm, long-fingered grip, dropped down towards his chest—but not before he saw his daughter’s spread legs in the gap between the men. Her cunt was flushed, dripping-wet. He screwed his eyes shut as hard as he could, until things swam with little pinpricks of light, and sobbed an inaudible thanks that Deanna’s eyes were closed and she hadn’t seen him.

Against his own will, John’s dick stiffened against the rough, pilled fabric of his briefs.

**Author's Note:**

> Visual inspiration for this piece (by which I mean links to porn):
> 
> https://pastebin.com/1UkSrxcc


End file.
